Inertia
by JellyBean30
Summary: Dark, angsty start to a new series about a possible House/Cameron future. This section is House POV. - Final Chapter Up. Stayed Tuned for Cameron's sequel Paralyzed.
1. Change

_**A/N: This is a melancholy piece, so be warned. Dark in some places. It is the start of what I plan to be at least a four part series about a possible House/Cameron road. This first section, which will be five chapters long, is in House POV.**_

**_Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, just the things I do to them._**

_**Inertia**_

_Inertia creeps  
Moving up slowly  
She comes  
Moving up slowly  
She comes  
Moving up slowly  
Inertia creeps_

_Inertia Creeps by Massive Attack_

**Chapter 1 – Change**

"_All change is bad? It's not true you know."_

_You turn and look at Cameron, standing too close to you in the doorway as you watch the workmen replace your new carpet with the bloody one. You think fleetingly that even after three years working for you she is still so naïve when everything shifts. Suddenly, Cameron is closer, touching you almost. She runs her hand up the front of your sport coat and lightly grips your lapel._

"_This change is though," she says softly._

_Her face begins to melt. As her skin turns from its normal alabaster to a sickly shade of gray, it becomes waxy and runs off her skull forming a puddle on the top of your shoe which quickly runs over onto the carpet. You look on in horror, unable to move, as millions of little maggots squiggle out of her exposed nostrils and eye sockets. She opens her mouth to speak, but only a wet croak emerges as what looks like swamp water, dank and faintly smelly, pours from her lips. Tiny drops fly onto your face and chest and you try to recoil. Your back slides along the glass wall and you fall backwards onto the floor, rapping your head sharply. You hold up your arms in vain, your cane lost in the fall, to fend Cameron off as she descends upon you._

You lurch up in bed, drenched in sweat. You can hear your own pulse thundering in your ears as your heart thumps painfully in your chest. You squeeze your eyes closed tightly and take deep breaths until you can feel your heart rate reduce back to something in the normal range. You open your eyes and look at the clock. 1:43 am.

"Crap."

You only managed to fall asleep an hour or so ago. You lie back down and close your eyes, hoping you'll be able to recapture that so oft elusive state called sleep. Immediately, the waxy-faced Cameron appears in your mind's eye, complete with worms and swampy spittle on her chin. You shudder and open your eyes to stare at the far less disturbing ceiling above.

You always dream vividly; that's nothing new. If anything your dreams have become more vivid in the years you've been taking the Vicodin. It is one of the side effects of pain meds that you find easiest to deal with. But this dream plagues you. Nightmares aren't exactly new territory for you either; but a recurring nightmare, well, that's different.

Tritter. Rehab. Change. All bad things. It is just a subconscious expression of your dislike for change, especially change you can't control. Your mind has obviously called up that one little snippet of conversation from your past and is now batting it about, much the way a cat will toy with a ball of yarn or the way your tongue returns involuntarily to run over a cut in your mouth.

Since you know that, your subconscious should no longer need to work on the idea. The nightmare should be gone. That hasn't stopped you from dreaming it two or three nights a week since your arrest.

You haven't been able to figure out why.

And it is always Cameron. Wilson must have given you a speech about change and rehab a thousand times in the past few years, why is it always Cameron?

You roll over and stare at the wall for a change of scenery. There isn't any good reason why you should be constantly dreaming about Cameron. There is no reason why dreaming about a dead and moldy Cameron should bother you so much. There is certainly no reason why, beyond the disturbing visuals, the dream leaves you with a vaguely uneasy feeling; a feeling that has nothing to do with Tritter, or rehab, or Wilson or ….anything except Cameron.

Frustrated, angry and exhausted you roll back over in bed and stare at the ceiling for a long time before sleep returns.

* * *

"You look like crap," Wilson greets you the following mid-morning when you arrive at the hospital.

"And good morning to you too," you say with a sideways glance as you limp tiredly toward the elevators.

"Trouble sleeping?" Wilson asks.

"Trouble staying asleep," you mumble, looking around as you wait for the elevator to arrive to make sure no one but Wilson hears that.

"I can't believe I'm going to ask you this," Wilson says in a low tone, "do you want me to write you a script for something?"

"It's not insomnia," you say with a brief shake of your head. Sleeping pills are not going to help you figure out the stupid dream and you are convinced figuring it out is the only way to rid yourself of it. The elevator arrives and you step on. Wilson follows.

"Actually I'm pretty sure a sleeping disturbance is the definition of insomnia," Wilson replies.

"It's…" you pause. Wilson will want to talk about it. You can't tell him about the dream without a mind-numbing lecture about your deep, psychological issues. "A recurring nightmare. It'll go away."

"Want to tell me about it? Might help," Wilson offers.

"Nope," you said, thinking how predictable Wilson is. The elevator stops and you step out. Wilson stops at his office door and you continue.

"House," Wilson calls. You pause and look back. "You can always change your mind."

You nod, wishing change was really that simple.


	2. Truth

_And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming  
__Or the moment of truth in your lies  
__When everything feels like the movies  
__Yeah, you bleed just to know you're alive  
__Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls _

**Chapter 2 – Truth**

You stare at the empty bottle of Oxy on the table, sitting chummily next to your drained scotch glass and cordless phone and you wait. You aren't sure if you should attribute your unnatural calm to the drugs or your belief that you are making a good choice. The right choice.

_The easy choice._

You would ignore this voice of dissent under normal circumstances. You've never been able to have your conscience removed, but you've become proficient over the years at simply pretending it doesn't exist. Normally, it takes the persona of your father, or in more recent years of Wilson.

Tonight, it is Cameron's voice that argues with you.

The easy choice? Ending your life is not an easy choice. As usual, Cameron takes an overly simplistic and naïve view of things. Of course, it isn't really Cameron. It is just your mind using Cameron as an outlet for something.

Your jaws spring open in a violent and unexpected yawn. The drugs are beginning to take affect. Your mouth snaps shut and you blink hard a few times. You feel your limbs begin to grow heavy, the way you feel as you sit in a tub and the water drains out.

No. You can't go yet, not until you figure out why Cameron is still in your head.

You've weighed all the options. All the ways this can play out. None of them have good outcomes for you.

You can't win at trial. You could probably get away with forging the prescriptions from Wilson's pad. Get some shrink to testify to your inability to admit the Ketamine treatment failed and your fear of looking weak by asking for help. But there is no getting around the theft. You stole pills from a dead guy, signed your own name. Stupid. And undeniable.

You can't go to prison. You will wind up dead in there anyway.

You've done everything you are supposed to do. You've made sure all your papers are where Wilson will look for them. You've called your mother and said goodbye to the one and only person who has never given up on you.

There is nothing left.

There is no other option.

_There's always another option. You're just afraid to face it._

You yawn again and have to blink hard several times to keep from drifting off toward sleep. You lean forward and to the right, causing your leg to cramp in protest. The pain sharpens your quickly dulling senses briefly.

What other option is there?

_Take the deal. House, stop this. Please._

Now you have a face to go with the voice. You can see a spectral Cameron, crouched on the floor in front of you tending your wounds. You sigh and it turns into another yawn. The specter in front of you begins to change. You cringe, expecting to see Cameron's melted, maggoty face again.

Instead, the Cameron just morphs from one image of her caring about you to another. Cameron bringing you coffee. Cameron taking the piles of mail when you complain about the headaches they caused you. Cameron fixing you a cup of tea when you are sick. Cameron pressing her delicate hands over your wounds and reassuring you when you were shot. Cameron bandaging your arm. Cameron pleading with you to get help.

_Please._

A thought that you have pushed from your mind for two and a half years with relative ease and unfailing certainty without ever letting it fully form now slips its chains and makes its way to the front of your rapidly blurring consciousness.

Maybe Cameron actually cares about you.

You close your eyes and are half-way to sleep when another realization comes crashing down on you. What if your subconscious picked Cameron because it knew Cameron could get to you?

What if Cameron can get to you?

You lurch off the couch and stumble to the floor on all fours. You try to crawl to the bathroom, but you can't coordinate your arms and legs properly and wind up falling face first onto the hardwood. With your lips pressed against the varnish, you change your mind.

You have to get to a phone to …no, you can't call anyone now. You'll end up in a psych ward instead of rehab. You can call Wilson. The phone is right there. You reach for it and manage to knock it to the floor. You grab it and stare stupidly before realizing you can't remember Wilson's number. It doesn't matter, as you can't see the numbers on the phone to dial.

You feel your eyes slip shut and the first trace of real panic sweeps over you.

You are dying. Right now.

You have to get rid of some of these pills before it's too late. You need to throw up.

Easier said than done. Over twenty years as a doctor and too many years drinking and taking drugs has apparently lined your stomach with lead. The only time it revolts now is when the drugs are taken away. Even if you could get to the kitchen, which you can't, you probably don't have enough ipecac or baking soda to make yourself vomit.

Running out of time, you ram your fingers down your throat. You cough and gag and almost heave before you yawn loudly and your eyes close again. You drift for a moment or two. But there is this nagging feeling you are supposed to be doing something. You manage to open one eye and can see nothing but floor.

Desperate now, you ball your right hand into a fist and drive it as hard as you can into your thigh. Luckily the fall has already strained what is left of the muscle, and awkward as the angle is from your position on the floor, the blow is just enough to give you one last jolt of clear thought.

You concentrate as hard as you can on Cameron's melted, waxen face. The maggots crawling out of her eye sockets and nostrils. The smell of the swampy spittle that flies from her lips as she speaks. You jam your fingers down your throat again, not pulling back even as you vomit down your arm. You turn your head and vomit again.

You roll over onto your back and stare at the ceiling. You feel fuzzy, but at least you feel. It will have to be enough for now.

If you are wrong about Cameron, what else are you wrong about?


	3. Lies

_And all the best deceptions and clever cover story awards go to you.  
So kiss me hard  
cause this will be the last time that I let you.  
You will be back someday  
And this awkward kiss that tells of other peoples lips will be of service  
To keeping you away  
__The Best Deceptions by Dashboard Confessional  
_

**Chapter 3 – Lies**

You press your hand against your lips as soon as Cameron is out of sight. What the hell? This isn't supposed to go like this. They aren't supposed to find out, and they certainly aren't supposed to care. But she does.

She does, right?

The damn needle is confusing you. You hadn't seen the kiss coming until it was really too late. But the needle definitely had come out of nowhere. She set you up. You ought to be proud; it's a fantastic ploy and you fell for it hook, line and sinker. In fact, if you hadn't been so wrapped up in the kiss that you were actually…holding her in your arms, you might not have felt her move for the needle at all.

She can't really be that detached from you. Not after all this time. She spent most of the last two years either trying to get your attention or trying not to garner it. Not after so much effort. She cares about you too much to be so cold, so calculating, so callous in the face of your impending death. Not with her history of caring about the damaged.

Not after you're finally at least considering the possibility she cares.

Not after you took it back just to make sure.

Not unless you are wrong.

She doesn't kiss like she doesn't care. _You try, but fail._

She kisses like she means it. _You do._

She kisses like she wants to remember what you taste like. _You'll never forget._

She kisses like she wants her taste to cloud your senses. _It does._

She kisses like she wants not to miss her chance. _You're afraid you have._

She kisses like she wants you. _You know the feeling._

You sit in your chair heavily. This plan is as close to a positive step toward changing something about your miserable life as you've taken in years, and it's all about to go to shit. They'll definitely notice when you don't die, and then what? You sigh and close your eyes.

Sleep, your fleeting friend and ferocious foe, comes.

Cameron's rotted, festering face appears. Maggots squirm out of her eye sockets and nostrils, worms hang from her ears in a grotesque parody of her mother's earrings. And a new detail manifests. On the top of her skull, in roughly the same spot that your implant would be placed, a rat nibbles through a hole at her brains.

How oddly poetic. Rats lie. You lie. Are you the rat, lying to Cameron and eating away at her mind? Or your own?

* * *

"You faked cancer…to get high?" Cameron asks in stunned disbelief.

You watch her carefully. Unlike the cool demeanor she presented in your office earlier that day, now she seems ill. She looks like she might cry; a look you haven't seen on her face in quite some time. It's a look you would prefer not to see again.

"I'm going to bed," you say and limp toward your room, unable to face them. To face her. You hear Foreman's parting shot, and fire one of your own. But it's Cameron's disappointment and disgust that lingers with you long after she departs.

Sleep is long in coming, and it comes with a price. She is back, rotting away in front of you. But this dream is different. You aren't standing in the doorway watching the workmen replace the carpet. You're in the conference room. You remember this too.

"_I don't feel like dancing," you say, your voice cracking with fear._

_Half-faced Cameron just stands in front of you, unmoving except for the nauseating squirming of the maggots in her face. You move to step past her, but suddenly the room shifts and you are in a tight hallway. Cameron is blocking the door and won't move. _

"_You're not dying," Cameron accuses you, and the fetid stench of her breath rocks you back on your heels. _

"_Move," you order. It sounds like an order in your head, but it passes your lips more closely resembling a desperate plea._

_Cameron shakes her head; you clench your teeth and grin to suppress the bile that rises in your throat as dozens of maggots fly out of her face in every direction. You can feel the hall closing in around you. You've never really been claustrophobic, but you've never been closed into a small space with a reanimated corpse before either. _

"_You lied," Cameron says. _

"_Everybody lies," you answer automatically._

"_And everybody dies," Cameron says. _

_A brushing against the sleeve of your jacket causes you to start, and you whip your head to the right to see the walls are actually touching you. Panicked now, you try to push past her, but she is unmovable._

"_You can't make me leave," Cameron says. _

"_Cameron, the walls are closing in," you plead. "You've got to let me go."_

"_I'm not what's stopping you," Cameron says, and as she speaks her face begins to melt again. As her skin drips from her skull, a new face forms. _

_It is you._

"_You're what's stopping you."_

_The walls collapse._

"NO!" You scream as you shoot up in bed. You squeeze your eyes shut and are surprised to feel a tear run down your cheek. You don't even bother looking at the clock as you climb slowly and painfully from bed. It doesn't matter what time it is; you won't be going back to sleep tonight.


	4. Goodbye

_I left you heartbroken, but not until those very words were spoken  
Has anybody ever made such a fool out of you  
It's hard to believe it  
Even as my eyes do see it  
__Shelter by Ray LaMontagne_

**Chapter 4 – Goodbye**

"It's late," Wilson says by way of a greeting as he steps out onto his balcony. "Your patient is diagnosed. Why are you still here?"

You merely stand, leaning your arms against the wall and staring at the stars. You've been waiting around for him; you don't want to, but you need to talk. You're tired of putting up a front, even for your patient, a virtual stranger to you.

"Inertia sucks," you finally reply.

"Okay," Wilson says unsurely, leaning with his back against the wall and looking sideways at you. You know he has no idea what you're talking about. How could he? You've been having this conversation in your head for an hour or more; Wilson came in the middle.

"As principles go, it sucks. Things are either going to stay the same or they're going to keep right on changing. That's just … moronic," you say gruffly.

"Right," Wilson says, and his tone of voice makes his confusion clear. "Well, it's always been my least favorite theory of physics. I mean, make up your mind for Pete's sake."

You roll your eyes and push off the wall, grabbing your cane and moving to walk back inside. You hate that he's glib when you're serious. After all these years of trying to make him believe you don't want to talk…you've succeeded. It may be what you want, but it's not what you need.

"House," Wilson calls. "What the hell is this all about? You've been weird lately, even by your standards. First you run circles around everyone trying to get Foreman to stay and then you turn around and fire Chase. What's going on?"

"Inertia, Wilson," you say, grateful in some measure that he hasn't been completely trained out of it. "Weren't you paying attention?"

"House," Wilson says sternly.

"It's not just a law of physics," you say slowly, tapping your cane on the asphalt beneath your feet. You keep your back to him and images of your now former team flash in your mind. "It also applies to life. Foreman resigned. That started the ball rolling. Turns out, a cripple doesn't have enough force to stop it. " You stop tapping the cane and smirk at it bitterly.

"And firing Chase?"

"Chase needed a push. I had enough force to change that," you tell him, and it's by far the most logical and sane reason you've come up with so far.

"So, what, you're saying you got swept up in the inertia and decided change was a good thing?" Wilson asks doubtfully.

"Can't stop it, might as well roll with it." You take two steps toward the door to your office and stop. You stare at your sneakers; you don't want him to catch even a glimpse of your face reflected in the glass doors.

"Cameron quit."

"What?" Wilson barks. He walks along the dividing wall toward you. "When? Why?"

"Cameron quit, about an hour ago, said she'd gotten all she could from the job," you answer in staccato bursts designed to stop any trace of caring from creeping into your voice. "She said she'd miss me."

"House," Wilson begins but you are already sliding the balcony door shut. You lock it behind you, knowing Wilson will follow if you leave him an opening. You grab your headphones and place them over your ears, wanting only to drown out the rest of the world. You lie on the floor, long legs propped up on the seat of your office chair and lose yourself in the music.

* * *

"_Say hi to Chase for me. You're wearing lipstick," you say as you look at Cameron. You sound spiteful and you hate yourself for saying it. She hasn't started rotting yet; she is beautiful and young and alive and she isn't yours. She nods her head sadly and turns to walk away. You wonder now if those words are what drive her decision. _

_Have you finally driven her away for good? _

_You blink and she is sitting in your chair. You close the space between you and she stands, handing you her resignation letter. You can only look at her. You want to tell her…something. You don't know what, but something that would make her stay. Screw rolling with inertia; she can't leave you too. You open your mouth and insanity spills out. You are saying words you have no control over, words that are not what you want to say. They are cool, they are logical and they are, if not a lie, hiding the truth. You ask what she expects you to do._

"_I expect you to be just fine," she says as she walks around the desk. You want her to stop, because even in your dream you know what is coming next, but you have no more words for her. _

_She begins to gray but instead of melting this time she is drying up, crumbling and turning to dust. Her hair splinters and breaks off in strands, collapsing into puffs of dust before they can hit the floor. She lays her hand on your arm and looks up at you with her once lovely eyes. _

"_I'll miss you," she says, and cracks run across her face as she speaks. She smiles and a chunk of her chin falls off and hits the floor, exploding into millions of tiny grains. She moves and you grab her arm to stop her, but it's too late. She disintegrates in your grasp, and you are left clinging to a few stray grains of sand and a lingering cloud of dust._

You wake slowly, squinting in the darkness that is your office. You raise your hand, rub your fingers together and blink unconsciously against the sand and dust you expect to fall into your eyes. You pull yourself from the floor and throw the headphones carelessly on your desk. You pick up your bag from the desk and leave your office. You can't stand another moment there alone.

Your walk home clears your mind considerably. You arrive home to find your new guitar has been delivered. It's enough of a distraction for you to push her out of your mind. You're certainly practiced enough at that.

As you play, you run the dream over in your mind and realize it's just another ending. It's different from the other dreams. There is nothing for you to figure out, no frightening images for you to decipher, no cryptic dialogue. There is a sense of finality about it that you can accept. You don't think the nightmare will continue. She's gone.


	5. Alone

_Will I always feel this way?  
__So empty, so estranged  
__Empty by Ray LaMontagne_

**Chapter 5 – Alone**

You never considered the possibility that she would leave just you. You accept without question Wilson's information that she and …that she has moved across the country; that she has moved on. You have no reason not to believe him.

You don't believe your own senses when you see her in the lobby. She is not _your_ Cameron. You cringe when you think of her that way, she was never yours, but you think it nonetheless. You are sure that your nightmares have invaded the waking hours until you overhear a conversation between two nurses about PPTH's favorite new couple.

You thought her leaving was the worst that could have happened between you. You know better now. Your nightmares are gone. You don't need them any longer. You are living the nightmare.

You immediately begin to drive yourself crazy with different scenarios. Why is she still in Princeton? Did she stay for the job? It seems so unlikely. She could have any job she wanted. The ER is a joke of a position for her. Did she stay for Chase? Is the sacrifice she is making in her career for him? Or worse, did they decide their future together?

You never feel more alone than when you are with her now. It's a rare occurrence. No longer is her presence, her scent, her energy an everyday part of your life. Now you must seek her out, and you find yourself doing it more frequently than you would like.

You stalk her during her shifts, taking patients you would never normally see because you need a reason to give her when you show up in the ER. You watch her surreptitiously so you can bump into her in the cafeteria when you need to and avoid her there when you must. You are a masochist, yes, but even you can tolerate only so much.

You fire a perfectly good candidate for your fellowship space because she reminds you of Cameron. It's irrational and you know it but that doesn't stop you. You compare everyone to her, consciously and unconsciously.

You almost sneer when you see them together. You don't, but she notices anyway and you hate that she can still do that. You don't want her to know you're even aware of them. You definitely don't want her to know you might care.

As if any or all of these burgeoning things you refuse to acknowledge as feelings aren't bad enough, you suddenly can't get enough sex. You've always had a healthy appetite when it comes to sex, but this is different. You are letting it cloud your judgment, interfere with your work and that is something that has never before happened.

You are appalled that Wilson notices. You are disgusted with yourself when you realize Foreman notices too. And yet, you are powerless to stop it. Even after you make a buffoon of yourself with Terzi, you ask her out anyway. In front of everyone. You tell yourself afterwards it was a calculated move; that you planned it that way to let everyone else know that you have no boundaries. Nothing is off limits in your mind.

You lie.

You hire hooker after hooker, even going so far as to procure the services of a clinic patient. You can't get enough. No amount of sex satisfies you.

You refuse to consider any reasoning about it beyond the physical need for sex. You deny that there is any possible motive other than the biological imperative for endorphin release. You rationalize your impulses as the result of the stress of the games you are playing with your fellows.

Then you see them together. There is nothing special about the interaction. They are talking, nothing more, but from the outside it looks so much more intimate than that. She touches his arm and smiles. She looks at him the way she looked at you when she left and you cannot stop the jealousy that courses through you.

Your chest constricts and every refusal, every denial, every rationalization is stripped away. You feel naked, raw and exposed, as though everyone around you could see this but you couldn't. Until just now.

You are lonely.

You are alone.

You have felt it most poignantly when you are with her, but you have pushed it aside as always. Now, you can no longer push it aside. Because as alone as you feel when you are with her, you feel more alone when she is with him.

Because you want her with you.

You drop your head to your chest, smirking bitterly at your own blindness as the nurses and patients pass you by in the lobby. You have been trying to fill the void she left with sex. You can't …because she isn't just sex to you. She never has been. And now, as you watch her with him, you know she never will be.

You grip the handle of your cane tightly and limp away in haste. You wish you had never hired her, never let her anywhere near you.

You had been right in the beginning.

You are better off alone.


End file.
